Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
very ill-provided-for. . . “Seductive” was the word I was trying to think of. . .
“It’s easy to see why men should fall down and worship you,” I said.
“Who’s in love with me now?,” she asked with the laugh of a child, exulting in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her whole life was natural to her. . . Inevitable, I might say.
“Arthur Spenworth,” I told her.
“Oh, he’s a dear old thing,” she answered.
“He is my husband,” I said.
I might have added “and the father of our boy,” but I would make no appeal; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be done. . . The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground. Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first bewildered . . . and then defiant . . . then curious . . . then a little ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.
“Well?,” she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, “You’re not a bit like what I expected.”
“Older perhaps?,” I asked. “My dear young lady, my husband and I are much of an age, but he carries his years better. Why, goodness me, you are a child! Our boy must be ten years older than you. . . Won’t you ask
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